


hate this part (paper hearts).

by mihkrokosmos



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Infidelity, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Cheating, Light Angst I Think, Love Rosie AU, M/M, Miscommunication, apparently this is angstier than expected sorry, cathartic late night conversations, explicit cheating, mentions of cheating, question mark, renjun uses they/them pronouns because i said so, yangyang vs crippling self-doubt, yangyang vs hendery’s dramatic ass, yangyang vs severe miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22868668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mihkrokosmos/pseuds/mihkrokosmos
Summary: Yangyang is stuck in the what-ifs of the past, Hendery desperately sprints towards the future. They’re supposed to meet in the middle, but neither of them have been good with instructions.
Relationships: Liu Yang Yang/Wong Kun Hang | Hendery, background norenmin
Comments: 25
Kudos: 75
Collections: 99' ft 00' fic fest





	hate this part (paper hearts).

**Author's Note:**

> prompt #ft039  
> i hope i did your prompt justice~ i think there’s one scene i wasn’t able to fit in, apologies, but hopefully it doesn’t detract from the overall experience!
> 
> lyrics for scene breaks come from high hopes by kodaline!

**_I've got high hopes. It takes me back to when we started._ **

People have a very funny way of neatly arranging things into pairs. There’s an odd obsession with other halves and coincidental little duos. Sunrise goes with sunset, winter goes with summer, spring goes with autumn and Hendery goes with Yangyang. It’s just one of those inexplicable things, like how people match black and white even though they’re polar opposites. Or, uh, rain and sun. For example. Years ago, like… literal eons, the Greeks decided that humanity originally had double of everything. Two sets of arms, legs, dicks (possibly), whatever. Then, the gods realised that this made humans far too powerful, so they chopped them all in half. Not _actually_ in half, but something like that. After this, humans just drifted meaninglessly around like lost souls until they could locate their _other half_.

And, honestly? None of this would have any relevance to Yangyang. Sure, he liked the balance of it, but he’s not really the type to analyse all of that. Except, hah, he’s holding a wedding invitation in his hand and he’s… he’s almost certain that _his_ name should be written on it, right beside the extravagant cursive lettering that only Hendery would choose. There’s an unsettling feeling settling in his stomach — anxiety, most likely, or doubt — and he kind of wants to be sick. He’s always been a little more anxious than everyone else, a little more high-strung than his peers. It’s not a big deal, truly, it’s something he can deal with. 

But, well, no. No, he can’t. 

Yangyang has always worn his heart on his sleeve, laid bare in front of every stranger, exposing every insecurity and fear. He has never shied away from his emotions, unapologetically _open_. Tears came as easily as grins and that was… fine. It was manageable. The only real problem was that he couldn’t keep a secret to save his life, the truth sliding past his lips like condensation down a glass. Yangyang worries and he doubts, but he loves and he cares. Therein lies the issue, doesn’t it? How could someone like Yangyang avoid someone like Hendery?

It would be cliche, if it was anyone else. The idea of soulmates. What was Hendery, though, if not a walking cliche? With his long hair and his cherry gloss and his cheap rings, talking about eternal love and feminist sociological theories like he knew everything. 

He hopped straight out of a trashy romance novel, moved in next door and became Yangyang’s best friend in a single breath. Yangyang had been a goner since the beginning.

Hendery was a whirlwind of fresh air for fourteen-year-old Yangyang. Someone Yangyang could go to when he needed to unwind, be a stupid teenager with for a couple hours. Nothing more, nothing less. They pretended they were kings, cycling around the miniscule town like they were unbeatable. Unstoppable. Every scraped knee and bruised elbow was just proof that they could do anything; they could be anyone they wanted to be. Countless promises were made, whispered dreams, with only summer sunshine as their witness. They didn’t know much, but they knew they were best friends. Wasn’t that the important thing? They had each other. They had the knowledge that this — this moment — was all that would ever, ever matter. 

An older Hendery was… something, then something more, and then something else. There was no neat, tidy way to word it. If Yangyang presses his mouth together, tight enough to bite into chapstick-coated lips, he can taste vodka and diet coke and _regret_ . What strange beings they both were. Yangyang had been seventeen when he kissed Hendery. Clumsy, with all the finesse of a vaguely intoxicated idiot. Hendery had been eighteen when he hurled the contents of his stomach into his toilet, swearing violently about how he _regretted everything about last night_.

It was a passing comment, hardly worth an essay to analyse it. Honestly, Yangyang should have let it slide. Hendery was dramatic, Hendery was flashing lights, Hendery was an ocean on fire. Hendery desired the world at his feet and dreamt of vibrant brushstrokes painting the galaxy neon. Yangyang… was Yangyang. He was a little in love, yeah, but he knew where his place was. 

Beside Hendery, never _with_ him.

What Hendery wanted, Hendery would always, _always_ get, and he didn’t want Yangyang. Not like Yangyang wanted him, at least. Fair enough. It wasn’t like Yangyang had an ultra-promising future — he’d been working in the same record shop for years, the kind of place that stops being cool once you hit twenty-two — and Hendery was off being a Harvard-educated Instagram influencer. He couldn’t compete with that. 

Yangyang lets the invitation fall from his hand, a derisive little laugh fluttering to the ground to sit atop the white card. The wood beneath his boots creaks and groans as he leaves, invitation lying on the floor behind him for Dejun to interrogate him about later. Later, when Yangyang lies awake and wonders how he let things get this bad. Later, when the rain pours and he can’t sleep because he’ll dream of alleyway adventures and cheap ramen at 2am. Fuck. The blue door shuts behind him and Yangyang wanders down the narrow street, past the window-boxes with dying flowers and the old bikes nobody actually uses, all bathed in the rusted sunset. 

It’s been three years since he saw Hendery. Three years since the other boy waved a Harvard acceptance letter in Yangyang’s face. Three years since he had left. Yangyang should be over this — he should be done with the choking bitterness, the unshakeable feeling of inadequacy. Just because he wasn’t good enough for Hendery doesn’t mean he’s _not good_ . That’s what he tells himself, occasionally, when he doesn’t feel trapped by the cobbled side-streets of Monschau. He’s not— he’s— it’s not _jealousy_ . Yangyang is able to acknowledge that much. If anything, it’s intense admiration that turned into affection before he could do anything to stop it. The slow exhale which escapes him is unbearably pathetic. He’s tired. So, so very _tired_. 

Monschau, in autumn, is a myriad of oranges and reds. Leaves drift into the Rur River, tangling together to create vivid splotches which float along, gentle and serene, until they cannot be seen. It’s a tourist town. You can tell, because it’s stiflingly quiet. People close up earlier, shutters drawn and doors locked. There is nobody present to greet Yangyang on his little meander. There is nobody who _would_. Yangyang’s welcome in the small town died with his father. The people who might have remembered his face from school have all up and left, moving on to bigger things. 

When Dejun actually has the time for him, he’ll ask him if he’s lonely. Yangyang will ask Dejun about his music instead, and that will be the end of the conversation. Dejun doesn’t care enough to probe and Yangyang doesn’t even know what he’d tell him. He knows Dejun cares about him, the same way you might care about a dying vase of flowers on someone else’s desk. It isn’t enough, but Yangyang will pretend it is. 

On _some_ level, he likes Dejun. Likes the soft kisses, the fleeting touches which remind him he’s not _quite_ as alone as he seems to perceive himself as. He enjoys the attention, the affection he gives and receives. The fondness is always brief, though, disappearing with Dejun’s car as he makes his way back to the city. They are together because… _Because_. Nothing intertwines their existences except them. Their unwillingness to let go, because nobody else will miss them. They forced themselves to stay together and it’s— not ideal. His mother would have a heart attack (she was always a firm believer in true love), yes, but his mother isn’t here to chastise him.

The air is cold. It sinks through the denim of Yangyang’s jacket. The chill seems to dig into his bones, freezing him layer by layer. Coming out this late was such a bad idea. The last rays of warmth have long gone, leaving a caustic breeze in its wake. The winter will be even colder, Yangyang realises, already able to picture the thick sheets of snow plastered across the town. The thought makes him shudder. Winter means slow business — like his shifts at the record store weren’t already endless — it means frozen pipes, it means futile battles with the old heater. It’s 2019, fucking hell. Yangyang ought to get his place fixed up, whilst he has the money for it. Everytime he googles the numbers of renovators, something buzzes underneath his skin. A burning discomfort — an intrinsic _wrongness_ — that he can’t shake off. 

The front door swings open, creaking on the old hinges. There’s a light on in the kitchen, a footprint on the white invitation, an extra jacket flung over the bannister. Dejun’s here. He’s brought more life with him than the house has seen in years, not like that says much. Yangyang coughs, a little awkward, shutting the door and tripping over his own feet when he goes to venture further. He makes a point of swearing quietly, but Dejun can still hear.

“Hey,” the brunet frowns, when Yangyang finally makes it to the kitchen. He doesn’t take up a lot of space, considering he’s 5’8”. Then again, he’s never put much effort in carving a permanent place in Yangyang’s life.

“Hey,” Yangyang echoes, hopping up onto the kitchen counter instead of sitting at the table like Dejun, “what brings you here so early?”

“Am I not allowed to rush a visit because I missed you?” Dejun tries and, really, it’s a valiant effort. Yangyang will give him that. It’s a shame that they both know it’s a lie.

“Nope.” Yangyang’s lips quirk up into an almost smile, trying to ease the blow that is the truth he has just spoken. It’s not important. They’re used to this. 

“Oh, are you finally joining us adults in the world of dry humour?” Dejun gasps, “What a development. I’m stunned. I need to tell Ten, he’ll be so proud of you.”

“Fuck you, stop teasing me. Bullying stopped being an expression of fondness when we turned seven.”

“This isn’t teasing, this is tough love. Anyway, you should tell that second part to Yukhei.”

“I’ve never met Yukhei.”

“Right.”

They lapse into silence, Yangyang idly kicking the cupboard behind his feet. A steady, rhythmic _thud, thud, thud_ of worn Docs against chipped cream. Dejun studies a nonexistent stain on his designer jeans (ripped, like every other pair Yangyang has seen him in). 

“I,” Dejun starts, clearing his throat. Yangyang looks at him, expectant. “I’m leaving.”

Yangyang pulls a face, nose scrunching up and brows furrowing. His vision drifts somewhere to the top-right corner as he tries to compute what Dejun means. There’s a spider’s web there. Huh, he’s never noticed. Must be recent. He hasn’t seen any spiders crawling around, though, so… what.

“Well, yeah,” He replies, hesitant, “you work in _Düsseldorf_ . You _live_ there. You always leave. What’s the huge fuss?”

The city was about an hour and twenty minutes away on a good day. Yangyang didn’t have the patience for such a long journey — yes, he considered that long — and his attention span meant he didn’t actually have a driver’s license. So, there was that to consider. 

“No, I’m leaving Düsseldorf. I’m moving away,” Dejun explains. 

Yangyang can see barely concealed excitement. A liveliness Dejun hasn’t shown in years. Hasn’t shown, full stop. Maybe, he should kick up a fuss about someone else leaving him, but… despite the overwhelming elephant in the room, Dejun has always been (at the very least) a friend to Yangyang. Yangyang knows how to love a friend. He can overthink it some other time, far from Dejun’s perceptive eyes.

“Seriously?” Yangyang grins, gummy and wide. It kind of stings, muscles unused to the strain. “Where? Is it a music thing? You compose, right, you still do that?”

“Seriously,” Dejun nods, straightening up in his chair, “Uh, my— my _friend_ , he has a job for me. I mean, it’s what I’ve always wanted to do, so I… Well, I just accepted. Like, then and there.”

“You absolute madman.”

“God, I know.”

“So! Where are you headed? Berlin? Cologne? Oh! You said one of your friends was moving to France. Is it them?” 

Dejun sucks in a deep breath. Yangyang feels static in the atmosphere, a storm gathering in the petite kitchen area before the lightning strikes and scorches all they have built up. 

“Boston.”

Yangyang blinks. Dejun blinks back. Dejun is pursing his lips like he wants to say something, but Yangyang doesn’t know what he _could_ say. Dejun is running after a dream he’s always had and Yangyang— is happy for him. He _is_. He hopes he doesn’t apologise. He doesn’t need to, not at all. Yangyang isn’t resentful by nature (he thinks) and Dejun is agonisingly optimistic. It’s fine.

“Well,” Yangyang breathes out, “that sounds… expensive!” 

“I’m living with my friend.”

“Cool. Cool, right, so, I wish you the best! Remember to call. Or text. Or,” Yangyang gestures wildly, knocking his hand against the edge of the cupboards, “email. Ah, wait, nobody emails anymore. I mean, I email! You might not. It’s outdated, I think. You could always write me a letter — ha _aaa_ , no. That’s expensive. So, um, Boston—”

“Yangyang,” Dejun murmurs, but it sounds like a shout and Yangyang immediately shuts up, eyes glued on Dejun. “We can still be friends. I’m not leaving you behind.”

Yeah. Yeah, he isn’t, because Dejun was never wholeheartedly _with_ him. Yangyang has realised this. It’s in the numbness in his fingers from the impact, the dull ache in his neck from craning it. Yangyang can feel all of these things with acute awareness. He cannot feel Dejun’s absence, and he will not feel it until next month when he doesn’t show up and tell Yangyang off for not buying enough fruit. Yangyang will miss Dejun like he will miss a cold. 

“I know,” Yangyang half-smiles — a brief twitch of the lips — and the thunderstorm recedes, leaving behind the smell of rain on desert sand and a sharp clarity in the air. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow. That’s why I’m here. I felt like I should say goodbye.”

Honestly, the fact that Dejun felt anything means he’s doing ten times better than Yangyang, but he’s always been better than Yangyang so… yeah, not much to say there. Maybe he should go to therapy. More realistically, maybe he should have a nap. A nap sounds good. A nap, some chocolate and fifty blankets because the house is really cold. 

“Makes sense,” Yangyang nods, the words foreign and uncomfortable on his tongue, “I won’t keep you. I’m sure you’re busy. Thanks for letting me know, and… I don’t know. Keep in touch? Yeah, keep in touch.” 

Dejun has already gotten to his feet, shuffling where he stands as Yangyang rambles. He huffs out another one of his tiny, exasperated laughs. Dear God, when will he learn? Not anytime soon, it seems. He observes as Dejun goes to grab his jacket, brand-name shoes squeaking against the worn flooring. Fleetingly, Yangyang wonders why he never made that many friends in school. Then he remembers that he was commonly known as _frog boy_. That could have played a role.

“I’ll keep in touch. Try and visit, sometime. I’ll send the address.”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

There’s no identifiable change once Dejun leaves. He has a fifteen minute walk to his car, Yangyang remembers, and he’ll probably use those fifteen minutes to sort out his life or whatever it was that successful people did. To be honest, he didn’t feel any different. There was no real call for him to turn his life around, to get up and be something more than a socially awkward disaster with more nervous energy than he knew what to do with. It wasn’t like a movie, when a door closed just so another one opened. Yangyang always had a tendency to leave doors open, anyway. He never liked feeling shut inside. There’s probably a metaphor in there, somewhere, but he’s too tired to analyse his own bullshit. That nap sounds so fucking good.

**_High hopes._ **

**_When you let it go, go out and start again._ **

The laptop screen isn’t bright enough to illuminate the keys, but Yangyang can’t be bothered to get up and turn on the light. The trampled invitation sits beside him, barely visible in the darkness. He hasn’t used his email account in so fucking long — it took him about an hour to recover his password ( _gayrightsexclamationmark)_ — and the website design has changed so much that it takes him about fifty years trying to figure out how to use it. 

Yangyang types. Changes his mind. Tries again. 

**Hey.** he writes. Seems like a good start. His fingers have paused just above the keys, indecision overriding anything else he might have felt. 

**It’s Yangyang. It’s been a while, right? Sorry for not really messaging you sooner. I don’t really have an excuse.**

Honesty is the best policy, isn’t it? Yangyang thinks so. He stalls again, unsure of how communication works beyond selling records twice a month and small talk with Dejun. He should get out more. Like, he _won’t_ , because he lives in Monschau, but… yeah.

**I hope you’ve been well! I don’t have much news. Are you enjoying life? How did university go? I got the invitation in the post, just today, so… you seem to be getting on fine in America. Haha.**

Oh, disgusting, delete that. Who says ‘haha’ over an email? Apparently, the nap earlier just further deteriorated Yangyang’s mental capacity. A tragedy. He didn’t exactly have much to spare. What else can he write? _Whoops, can’t go to your wedding because I never got over you which makes me sound like an asshole lol thx for the invite tho ur a real one_? Doesn’t exactly flow very well. 

**I hope you’ve been well! I don’t have much news. Are you enjoying life? How did university go? I got the invitation in the post, just today, so… you seem to be getting on fine in America. I’m not sure about the date, yet — did you mean to post out the invitations so early? Six months seems extreme. Maybe it’s because you’re in America. Wow, I’m dumb — I’ll try and get there, though.**

See, that sounded… it _sounded_ . Yangyang wasn’t the best judge at 5am. Yangyang’s judgement was piss poor in general, the more he thought about his track record. So much for being a Capricorn rising. He lets his hands slide from the laptop keys, the corner of his pillow digging into his neck at an awkward angle. He forgot to turn off his speaker downstairs, so _Tomorrow_ by MIKA filters through the gap under the door and grabs one of his hands. Yangyang breathes. He doesn’t _need_ to analyse this, to pick it apart word for word. Hendery would understand the general message. Hendery wouldn’t— doesn't even know why Yangyang was beating himself up over one email. 

He sits up in his bed. _I know you're getting nervous, but this is a mess worth fighting for_ , sings Michael Holbrook. The world keeps spinning, the same way it will when Yangyang stops panicking about the inconsequential bullshit. 

**Hey.**

**I hope you’ve been well! I don’t have much news. Are you enjoying life? How did university go? I got the invitation in the post, just today, so… you seem to be getting on fine in America. I’m not sure about the date, yet — did you mean to post out the invitations so early? Six months seems extreme. Maybe it’s because you’re in America. Wow, I’m dumb — I’ll try and get there, though. It’s exciting, isn’t it? Who would’ve known.**

**Dejun said he was moving to Boston. You remember him? He went to our school for a while, before he moved to Düsseldorf. Anyway, that’s kinda near where Harvard is… I think…**

**I’m still very, very bad at geography.**

**It’s kinda late, so, reply when you get the chance. I’ll try and talk more consistently! If you want me to. It’s weird, not… I don’t know, not talking to you like I did before? That sounds stupid. I don’t know how to phrase things. Especially in english. Fuck english.**

**Love, Yangyang.**

The email will sit in his drafts, he knows this, for a laughable amount of time. He might delete it. He might rewrite it. At the very least, it exists. That’s a good thing, he thinks (he hopes).

**_High hopes, when it all comes to an end._ **

It’s that strange period of time. Not quite Christmas, not quite Halloween. Monschau is hushed, the calm before the storm. In a couple weeks, the Christmas Markets will be in full swing. Tourists will flock to the streets, packed shoulder-to-shoulder in a town unable to accommodate such an influx of personalities. If they are lucky, the snowfall will turn Monschau into the picturesque winter scene showcased on postcards and aesthetic blogs. If they aren’t, they’ll have to cope with the disappointment. Yangyang has seen both phenomenons happen. Nothing is quite as spectacular to watch than a touristy blogger whining over an imperfect shot. Nothing is quite as irritating. More people means longer shifts, too, work based on the naïve hope that someone will actually buy a record and not just a can of Fanta. 

Yangyang banged his head against the desk approximately four minutes ago. He wonders if he stays long enough, will he become one with the wood? It isn’t like they’re getting any customers, so nobody would interrupt his experiment. Except, potentially, his rather eccentric boss who speaks with a remarkably terrible Australian accent (in German) and talks to him about her past life in Tokyo (she’s never left Germany). What a life he’s living, indeed. 

The bell above the door doesn’t chime, as such, because it’s been broken to hell and back, but the sound it _does_ make is enough to rouse Yangyang from his crisis. 

Someone is wandering down the aisles of the store, picking records up and sliding them back into place with practiced ease. They’re not dressed for the cold, thin denim jacket tossed over cargos and a matching black shirt (which, Yangyang guesses, is a short-sleeved one). Their Converse are absolutely soaked, canvas saturated with rainwater. Should he get their attention? Should he die? Both seem reasonable options, but neither are necessary because the visitor has picked a record _and_ a can of Fanta. Revolutionary. 

“How much?” They ask. Yangyang has to take a moment, squinting in confusion. He understood what they said, sure, but something feels _off_. A beat passes. 

It clicks.

“Uh, thirty for the— for the vinyl. Three for the drink. Euros, I mean,” Yangyang answers in butchered Chinese, fingers pulling at the sleeves of his sweater as he fights to remember the words. 

Up close, the Chinese tourist looks about his age. Angular features, all thin lines and quick pen strokes. Blond hair falls over brown eyes — downcast, as they pick out the correct amount of money. From this angle, Yangyang can see a myriad of pins attached to the jacket, enamel lollipops and rainbows and one that says _THEY/THEM_ in a font so bold and bright that it is impossible to miss. 

“You’re Chinese.” It isn’t a question. They hand over the owed amount with a businesslike detachment, but Yangyang can sense the curiosity, sees it glitching across their face with every other moment. The customer has decided to speak English, which isn’t a huge improvement but Yangyang’s Chinese is just… embarrassing. 

“Mmm,” Yangyang shrugs, “yeah. Kinda. Been living here since I was four, so…” he trails off, shrugging again because who needs professional body language, anyway. 

“I can tell,” the stranger nods, offering a hand which is the most like a human Yangyang has been treated all day. Not that the bar is overwhelmingly high. “I’m Renjun.”

“Yangyang,” says Yangyang, too slow to react to the offered hand and too quick to let go. 

They lapse into silence. Not like the silences he had with Dejun, but a more analytical one. Renjun seems to be picking Yangyang apart with intrigued judgement. They’re giving Yangyang the opportunity to do the same, too, which is nice but unnecessary. 

“My boyfriends dragged me on a trip around Europe,” Renjun discloses, casual but careful. Waiting for Yangyang to say something. Yangyang doesn’t. “What is there to do here?”

“Not… much…?” Yangyang offers, shifting his weight and giving Renjun their change, “I mean, it’s not a big place. Christmas markets will be up in a couple weeks, but I guess you’re not staying for that long.”

“Yeah, probably not.”

“You could always head towards one of the cities. There’s, uh, museums and all. Well, there’s museums here, but they probably aren’t as interesting.”

Renjun digests the information, nodding when Yangyang pauses. He doesn’t know whether it’s because they’re listening or if because Yangyang’s halted English is no better than his mangled version of Chinese. Possibly a combination. He’s saved from the stifling quiet by the not-a-chime of the bell, two voices debating rapidly. And loudly. Yangyang forgot that not everyone struggled to speak at coherent volumes. 

“I’m just saying, I think France would be nicer!”

“Do you have money for France?”

“We didn’t have money for Germany.”

A misplaced, vaguely irrational shot of indignation fires through Yangyang. 

“You’re so _loud_ ,” Renjun sighs, turning to raise an eyebrow at the new arrivals. Yangyang is still trying to process the fact that there are four people in the shop at the same time. That’s more people than Yangyang has even seen in the last couple of hours. That’s more people than Yangyang has even seen in the shop, ever. 

“You love us,” one of the latest arrivals dismisses. Blinding blond hair falls over sculpted cheekbones. An undercut for the history books, Yangyang reckons, though he would be surprised if they weren’t already famous for being a model. They had the brows for it. Everything about them seems effortless, in that assholish way except they just _don’t seem like an asshole_ . Maybe it’s because they’re giving Renjun and the other stranger intense heart eyes. Emoji heart eyes. Not the one with the hearts all around the face, the one where the hearts replace the eyes. Yes. It _might_ be because Renjun looks just as smitten, and Renjun seems like the type to be a good judge of character. 

“What did you buy?” The other one interrupts, gesturing — flailing — in the general direction of the till. And Yangyang, by extension. He hopes his internal panic isn’t all too obvious. At least they seem friendly, like they belong on a flyer promoting volunteer work. They do have a mullet, which is a choice in itself, but the way it fluffs and curls makes it seem _stylish_. Madness. A finer bone structure than the blond person, but not as soft as Renjun. Fuck, is Yangyang staring? Most likely.

“Chill,” Renjun sighs, “you haven’t even said hello. Who raised you?”

“Taeyong,” both of them chorus. 

This seems like an awfully private conversation. The type with inside jokes and all that. Read: the type Yangyang has never had. Should he die? Should he hide?

“Oh, fuck, we haven’t said hi!” Mullet person realises, whacking the blond with a panicked expression. Yangyang can’t see his own face, but he imagines he looks like the polite cat meme. 

“That’s what I told you.”

“Shh. Hi! I’m Jaemin!” Jaemin grins, offering Yangyang a hand with an infectious energy, “nice to meet you — Jeno, you’re standing on my foot — this store is _so_ cute. This town — is it a town? Renjun, is it a town? Village? — is cute, too. I love Germany.”

“You complained about not going to France five minutes ago,” Jeno points out. Yangyang assumes their name is Jeno. He has no idea. The conversation lost him as soon as Jaemin complimented Monschau like it isn’t the biggest tourist trap in the country. “Lee Jeno. Jeno Lee. My pronouns are he/him. Jaemin uses he/him, too, he just forgets to mention that.”

Jaemin offers Yangyang a bashful grin like the concept of varying pronouns isn’t unheard of in such a small place. Yangyang owes his own lack of ignorance (question mark, because sometimes he can be dumb) to overexposure to the internet. It’s a blessing in disguise. 

“I-it’s fine,” he manages to say, words unfamiliar on his tongue, “I’m Yangyang.”

His name tag says Yangyang. Jesus Christ. Social inadequacy has never been as endearing as people seem to believe it is. Yangyang has firsthand knowledge. The floor does not seem to want to swallow him up, so he perseveres. 

“Uh, my pronouns are he/him —”

(He thinks so, anyway).

“— and, it’s okay. I think France is prettier, too.”

His awkward smile seems to do _something_ to make Jeno and Jaemin warm up to him. Jaemin launches into a full-blown explanation of _why_ he wanted to go to France, only to get shut down (here, Jeno protests that he hardly shut him down) because Jeno wanted to go to Germany and his puppy dog eyes are just… ridiculous, you know? 

Yangyang doesn’t know, but he lets himself laugh at Renjun’s dry humour and Jeno’s exhaustive recount of the trio’s rebellious expedition across Europe and it _almost_ seems like he could be friends with people like them. Almost. The little weight of insecurity sits steadily on his shoulders, and Yangyang spares a second to question if it will ever go away.

The second is cut short by Renjun gasping in offence at Jaemin criticising the record they have just paid for. They pivot to face Yangyang, eyebrows raised as if to ask _can you fucking believe this?_

Yangyang can. He says as much, because the record really… isn’t great. This opinion is rewarded by too-loud cheering from the others and a round of high-fives. Yeah, Yangyang could almost be friends with them. 

(Yangyang _will_ be friends with them, for as long as he allows them to be. He just needs to admit it to himself). 

**_But, the world keeps spinning around._ **

The glowing ‘1 new email’ notification has been haunting him since he first saw it.

**hiiiiii wtf it’s been so long bro i rly missed hearing from you :(( i’ve been good and i hope u have too!!!! hhhhh it feels so weird talking 2 u after so long ig,, or typing 2 u lmfaooo,, ANYWAY yes the . invite. yeah. uh i guess i jus wanted u to be the first 2 rly know ?? it’s weird ik but i think it’s cause we were so close n it would have felt wrong to not let u kno first ?? wellllllll first person outside of IMMEDIATE FAMILY and all that . idk ignore me lmao**

**im kinda in a rush but pls pls talk more often bruh i miss u tf,, don’t fall off the face of the planet again or i’ll .. idk. cry or something.**

**luv, hendery**

In spite of Hendery’s outstanding academic achievement, he hated school. Despised it. Loathed it. Pick your favourite verb. Yangyang had no such qualms, even if the IRS was in Neuss and, by extension, about an hour away and it meant getting up earlier than anyone should have been expected to. Hendery didn’t have an issue with the extremely early mornings or the languishing length of the evenings, no, his issue lay in the fact that he had a school to go to. If you sat him down in front of a pile of textbooks, he’d return within five minutes, having just reinvented the wheel. If you did this in a school environment, he would probably burn the building down. Such was the attitude of Huang Guanheng. Not like any of it was important, in the end, because he got the top grades and ended up spending even more time with his head stuck in books.

These are all the trivial things Yangyang entertains when he reads (or tries to read) Hendery’s response. Oh, no. He’s becoming a Boomer. Modern language no longer computes in his head. He’ll have to swap his Android for a… Nokia, or something. He’s exaggerating. He’s allowed to do that. Hendery’s email is not written in English. Not English that Yangyang can easily scan through, anyway. 

He’s sprawled across his sofa, mismatched cushions pushed carelessly to the floor in his search for comfortable seating. The first rays of sunshine are beginning to poke through the lace curtains, sunrise imminent on the horizon. On the ground, further away than the cushions, a blow-up mattress slowly deflates under the shared weight of Jeno, Jaemin and Renjun. 

(JJR, Jaemin had suggested he call them. The idea was quickly shot down).

The trio had spent longer in Monschau than intended, transport problems and equally as trivial financial issues cutting their roadtrip a little short. Or, it would have if Yangyang hadn’t suggested that they use his house as a base whilst they figured out a plan of action. Impulsive? Definitely. Yangyang, for one, blamed it on the five energy drinks he’d inhaled prior. Nothing really makes sense, anyway. Nothing _has_ to make sense — that’s what he tells himself to justify his stranger choices.

There’s something funny about the dark. You can’t see anything, but so much more becomes clearer. People are more honest in the dark. Words, skinned to the bone and bleached bare, are laid across the ground, waiting to trip someone unsuspecting. Hearts and brains entangle in a confusing symphony as people try to make sense of what they want to say, of what they mean. Everything gets blurred in that phase before/after waking, pre/post dream, shrinking down to the mere centimetres you can see in the dark before your eyes adjust. 

For the whole time Yangyang has been staring thoughtfully at the inflatable bed, Jeno has been staring back. 

Yangyang blinks. 

Jeno blinks back. 

Yangyang blinks again.

Jeno asks, “is everything okay?”

Yangyang replies, “I’m not sure.”

Painstakingly slow, a statue in action, Jeno disentangles himself from the maze of limbs encasing him. It takes years, days, hours, minutes, before he sits down in front of the sofa and leans his head against Yangyang’s legs. The human contact is disturbingly unfamiliar. That’s pretty sad. 

“Didn’t think so,” Jeno hums. The shadows flatter the sharp contours of his face. He looks like he’s in the middle of a photoshoot instead of being on the precipice of offering therapeutic advice. “I was going to talk to you earlier, but I didn’t want to just assume.”

“I don’t think I would’ve known what to say. This whole… _thing_ … feels like an unedited Wattpad story,” Yangyang confesses, horribly out of his depth in what is gearing up to be an emotionally articulate discussion. 

“We’re all living unedited Wattpad stories,” Jeno offers, “you just gotta figure out what the genre is.”

“Unrequited love, hurt no comfort, angst without plot,” Yangyang responds without missing a beat.

“Isn’t that more AO3?”

“Oh. Maybe.”

Yangyang had forgotten about his laptop. The fan whirrs aggressively, threatening to wake the other two up if Yangyang doesn’t let it cool down. He hastily slams down the lid, lets it slide to the bottom of the sofa where it can breathe. Oh, listen to him! _Breathe_. Laptops can’t breathe. Sleep would be wonderful. 

“Wanna explain?” Jeno continues, ignoring the minor predicament with questionable ease. 

“My best friend — is he still my best friend? I kinda lost contact with him — is getting married.”

“If you say you were in love with him and didn’t tell him, I might get up and leave. I won’t. But, it will be a very near thing.”

Yangyang presses his lips together, sheepish. 

“Oh, my God,” Jeno grumbles.

“Sorry?”

“Renjun would be better at this, I think, but I’ll try my best. I don’t know why you didn’t confess, to be fair, but… is it not better to go and support him at his wedding?” Jeno’s suggestion is halted and thoughtful, every word only picked out after intense scrutinisation, “I get that he’s a big ‘What If’ for you, but if there’s someone he wants to be there, it’s you. And his significant other, obviously.”

Yangyang hums a response. He’s glad he opted to stay here, as opposed to going back to his own bedroom. It’s chilly, upstairs, and lonely. It’s been his room since forever. The master bedroom was converted into an art space, since the emptiness used to haunt Yangyang and (surprisingly) Dejun was able to offer decent advice on how to solve it. 

“That’s not why I’m… Why I…” 

The words are hard to say, least of all because of the difficulties of the English language. Even in German, the phrasing would be clunky and awkward. Then again, what is Yangyang, if not clunky and awkward? 

“Take your time,” Jeno interrupts, honey-smooth and just as comforting. It makes it easier for Yangyang to think.

Yangyang isn’t the best at withholding things. He’s always been very… hm… all-or-nothing. There is no grey area, no pause between ‘should I’ and ‘I will’. In a way, it’s balanced. A solid, unvaried yes/no. Ride or die, according to Co-Star. 

( _Maybe_ is a foreign word, but it creeps in too often).

So, when Jeno asks him, Yangyang answers as best as he can. 

Hendery’s birthday party had been borderline wild, when you took into consideration how they lived in the quietest village ever. That said, Hendery _did_ have a good number of friends and people who might have been friends, if he ever realised they existed. That was just his nature. Over time, Yangyang thought he might have exaggerated Hendery’s popularity, but then he had the sense to check the guy’s Instagram, and, well, nope. He knew other people admired Hendery, liked Hendery, wanted to be friends with Hendery in the same way Yangyang was. What did that even mean? He wasn’t— wasn’t _special_. Hendery just latched onto him because he was the first new face in a new town and that was the type of romanticised trope Hendery liked.

Even as he considers it, Yangyang knows that isn’t right. Doesn’t sound right. Hendery is self-assured and self-aware and self-something else. It’s hard, though, convincing yourself that you _did_ throw gasoline on a burning building when you might not have, when you definitely didn’t. The collapse of their friendship after the birthday fiasco was inevitable. Yangyang considers himself the catalyst, anyway. Hendery might have been the one to voice his ( _intense_!) regret, but Yangyang was the one to distance himself afterwards, but, but, but. 

Jeno watches him with a hawk’s perceptiveness. Yangyang shuts his mouth with an audible clicking that, honestly, stung enough to make him regret moving. Ugh. 

“You’re an incredibly unreliable narrator,” Jeno comments. It’s not an insult, and Jeno says it in the same tone he uses when discussing capitalism and fashion. That is, to say, Yangyang understands what he speaks without understanding what he means. 

“Thanks?”

“You seem to like blaming yourself for everything, is what I meant,” Jeno corrects himself. Yangyang still doesn’t get it. It’s seven in the morning. “Is that why you’re so self-conscious? I don’t mean it in a bad way! I just… I’ve seen how you react to being involved in conversations.” 

Yangyang parts his lips to point out that it’s probably _natural_ , given he usually isn’t involved in anything.

“Wait,” Jeno stops him, “can I be brutally honest?”

“What were you being before this?”

“That isn’t an explicit _yes_.”

“Yes.”

“I think you’ve been too harsh on yourself. You built up this whole idea of… Hendery — am I saying it right? Yes? — being so amazing, that you’ve… I dunno, _neglected_ to realise that he’s as human as you are. And, like, you’ve been beating yourself up for not being good enough when _maybe_ Hendery just wasn’t who you thought he was.”

A soft breath escapes. Yangyang thinks it might have come from him. It’s not overly jarring to hear — Yangyang knew all of it already, on some level — but realising it was tangible, believable, because someone else had noticed… That was enough to make his head cloud up with static. 

“Think about it,” Jeno murmurs, “maybe I’m wrong.”

“Maybe.” Most likely he isn’t. Yangyang feels lighter than he has in a while. The weight on his chest shrinks, allows him to actually _breathe_.

(It will take quite a bit of time for Yangyang to outgrow years of self-inflicted bullying and damaging misconceptions, but time is something that he has).

**_Broken bottles in the hotel lobby._ **

**_Seems to me like I'm just scared of never feeling it again._ **

Was every city this loud? Yangyang is but a mere country boy from Monschau! He can’t deal with this! Holy shit, _why_ does every driver insist on kicking up a storm over one traffic light? Noise bombards him at every angle, garish advertisements and blaring radios and people yelling. So much _yelling._ If there was such a thing as a personal hell, this would be Yangyang’s. Let him hide away in his art studio, please-and-thanks. Every step was one hell of a struggle, Yangyang’s suitcase awkwardly battering at his heels. Who the hell could ever live here? 

Dejun, apparently. And Hendery.

Yangyang navigates the city with more than just _some_ difficulty, bumping into more people than he can count on both hands and feet. Eventually, he just nods in apology instead of letting out a stream of spontaneous German that probably sounded angry instead of remorseful. Google maps isn’t much help, the instructions getting lost between Yangyang’s phone speaker and the buzz of the city around him. He should, according to his battered phone screen, be outside Dejun’s apartment. He is not. This could be a problem. 

The person who greets him at the door of the apartment has peachy orange hair and calculating eyes. Why does everyone stare at Yangyang like he’s an optical illusion? There’s glitter flickering under the glow of ceiling lights, smudged over the fake freckles on his cheeks. He’s not Dejun. Yangyang may have fucked up. 

“You must be Yangyang.”

Yangyang almost looks behind himself, but manages to catch himself. The result is an awkward jerk of the head which is too sharp to pass off as a nod. Oh, joy. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I am. Sorry, uh, who are you?” Yangyang can feel his cheeks warm up under the intense scrutiny. This must be how bugs feel under microscopes. Do they study live bugs? Yangyang does feel rather dead, after the travelling, so maybe the analogy works anyway. 

“Haechan,” Haechan drawls, American accent dripping from his teeth to mix with the Korean one lying on his tongue. The result is a sugary-sweet concoction that could burn through bedrock. “Did Dejun never mention me? I’m gonna fight him.”

Haechan. The name _could_ be familiar, just like Yangyang _could_ have stayed in Monschau instead of flying out a couple weeks before the wedding on Dejun’s suggestion. 

“I thought you had blond hair,” is Yangyang’s lame excuse. Haechan presses his lips together, an almost-sneer. Yangyang knows better than to take offence to it. Some people just have faces like that. 

“You should probably come in. No need to take your shoes off. There’s probably something caustic on the floor.”

It’s a testament to Yangyang’s whitewashed upbringing, the way he forgot taking shoes off was considered a tradition. Habitual. 

He makes all of ten steps before Dejun attacks him in a hug, encasing all of Yangyang’s worries before they spill over the floor like the strange stains on the worn-out carpet. All it does is trap them back in Yangyang’s head, but a fix is a fix. 

“I thought you’d be here later, so the place is a mess. It’s not my fault,” he huffs, shooting Haechan a look. Haechan, for the most part, is admirably unruffled. Only an eyebrow raise betrays the fact that he was listening. “Anyway, meet Haechan! My, uh…” 

The hesitation says more than a flimsy noun ever could.

“Oh, neat. For how long?” Yangyang breezes ever onwards, ignoring the heaviness pressing down on his shoulders. It’s not personal. It’s never been personal. Yangyang and Dejun were always too good of friends to be more, despite attempts. That’s what he tells himself.

“Couple months,” Haechan offers, glancing between Dejun and Yangyang with muted — but no less intimidating — intrigue, “long distance for longer, though.”

And that… that doesn’t add up for a barrage of reasons, the most prominent being the fact that Yangyang and Dejun had only called it quits in October, at the latest. Dejun had been in Boston a couple days after that. Not long enough for him to find himself in a meaningful relationship without background interactions. A couple months, Haechan had said. It was late November. Yangyang doesn’t know whether he should feel hurt or offended or _what_ , because they weren’t _together_ but they weren’t _apart_ either and Yangyang sure as hell hadn’t been gallivanting around with other people, long distance or otherwise, so there was that. Then again, did emotional infidelity count? Because they both knew Dejun was only getting half of what Yangyang could offer. That said, it had _clearly_ went both ways. 

Something unpleasant curls in the pit of Yangyang’s stomach, a sickening, viscous poison that tastes like honey and chokes twice as quickly. The lines between justified and unjustified are practically nonexistent. A single-circle Venn diagram between betrayal and dishonesty. Both sides had been unfair, he was aware of that. Still. He felt as if he was allowed a little hurt. After all, Dejun was another person Yangyang hadn’t been good enough for. Simple as that. Honestly, he should have been furious. Dejun had never made any move to break up before he had announced his departure, despite having a reason to. He should have known Yangyang wouldn’t have held it against him. Couldn’t have ever held it against him.

Oh, and here they were.

His lip must have curled in realisation, because Dejun is taking a step back, poised to give a reasonable explanation because that’s what his reflexes tell him to do. That is what he’s good at. Yangyang gets it, he really does, and if he was more rational he would _certainly_ love to hear the justification behind Dejun’s actions. A part of him wants to find out how Dejun will spin this in a positive light, diplomatic enough to make them all sound like angels. As it stands, all Yangyang can bring himself to do is leave. 

“I might go on a walk. Explore. Can I put my case down?” His voice sounds even, if a bit distant, and his hand doesn’t tremble when he gestures to the offending baggage. Dejun jumps into action, gives Haechan a look Yangyang definitely was not supposed to see, wanders down the hall to show Yangyang to the spare room. Simultaneously, Haechan slips out of sight. He does mutter something about cleaning his makeup off, but it fades in the film reel of motion and sound, bleached out of the frame. Yangyang won't miss him, in the least vindictive way possible.

Leaving the apartment doesn’t do much to assuage the bone-deep ache, but it means he can let the fractured shards fall to the floor as he walks, as opposed to holding them tight to his body and letting them slice into the fragile skin. He might call Jeno, tell him about the fifty steps back that had been taken in the span of five minutes. Oh, never mind. Germany is about five hours ahead. The trio had offered to mind Yangyang’s house, which benefited them as much as it did him. Renjun might burn the whole thing down, but Yangyang figured it wouldn’t be a huge loss. He could sleep under a bridge.

The city orbits around him. Every footfall feels like he’s entering a new realm, reality altered in the way it usually will when so many people live different lives in one area. It’s overwhelming, for both Yangyang and the city. The pavement tilts under his feet, sends him reeling into a hoodie-clad figure, though Yangyang only catches a glimpse of printed grey clouds before a hand is reaching out to clutch his wrist.

“Whoa, dude, careful. This is Privé!”

“It’s wh— _Hendery_?” Yangyang splutters, because the universe enjoys seeing how much it can put him through before he loses it entirely. Ostensibly, his brain has already up and left. There’s just cobwebs and the lyrics to Butterfly by LOONA circulating around his skull. Fly like a fucking butterfly.

“Y— wait. Oh, my _God_. Yangyang?”

Oh, my God, indeed.

Hendery doesn’t let go of Yangyang’s wrist. The touch burns through the flimsy bomber jacket, searing a brand onto the bone underneath. He’s all dark hair and dark eyes and dark eyeliner smudged out like he’s preparing for a My Chemical Romance comeback, except he actually looks good. He always has, though. Hendery tucks a stray tendril of hair behind his ear, the messy bun giving him an aura of teenage recklessness. If Yangyang didn’t know better, he’d say Hendery was a couple years younger, instead of a year older than him. 

“Fancy bumping into you,” Yangyang wheezes out, “in the… city where you live…” 

“Mmm… It’s a big city,” Hendery offers, lips pressed together and eyes darting all over the show.

All Yangyang can do is nod, the awkwardness overflowing out and catching on the jackets of the people rushing past them, snagging on their heels.

“You’re a little far from Monschau,” Hendery prods, “what brings you out to the States?” 

He’s cautious, and rightfully so. They don’t know each other, not anymore. Yangyang reckons that if they saw each other at a party, or in a store, they’d just be on the periphery. A face you might know, but you cannot be sure. You’ll move on, unsure of whether you want to risk the embarrassment of talking to a stranger. In a way, it doesn’t matter, because they’re still _not someone you know_. Distance never equalled fondness. They both wish it did. 

It dawns on Yangyang that Hendery didn’t assume he was here for _him_. He doesn’t know how to take that. Maybe he should be relieved, relieved that Hendery isn’t taking his autonomy for granted, relieved that Hendery is aware that they don’t gravitate around one another like they used to (oh, but a planet orbits the sun. Not the other way around). Alternatively, maybe he should feel disappointed in Hendery for believing Yangyang could just forget about him. Forget about who they were, once upon a time.

“I was visiting a friend. And his boyfriend. I’m here until after the, uh, the wedding.”

Yangyang goes to shove his hands in his jean pockets, realises he’s wearing cargo pants with _fake_ pockets, flails about until he settles on crossing his arms with his gaze fixed on the floor. Halfway through this disaster, he remembers he has a hoodie on. And a bomber jacket. Both have pockets. A little late now. To give Hendery credit, he ignores the mortifying scene with ease born from years of witnessing it already.

“You’re definitely coming?” 

“Well, yeah, like, you’re my best friend. It would be weird if I didn’t, right?” 

The term slips out, unbidden and unwanted. Yangyang has one of those complexions that show even the barest hint of a blush. And his face _burns_. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His email might have been amicable enough, but Yangyang has no real right to just assume that they’re as close as they used to be — because they aren’t — but Hendery doesn’t look angry. Actually, he looks kind of pleased. Like he’s just trained a cat to jump into the bath. 

“It wouldn’t be weird, it would just be really fucking rude. Imagine trying to explain to my parents why you didn’t show up. Imagine trying to explain to my _sister_ why you didn’t show up.”

“That’s fair. I like your sister. She’s nicer than you.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that blatant favouritism.”

There’s a pause. They both grin at each other, laughter bubbling up, mentos in a bottle of coke, and it wasn’t even that funny but isn’t it nice, isn’t it nice to know that they can still do this. They can still make each other laugh. Hendery’s smile is gummy and the corners of his lips curl up like a kitten’s. Yangyang wonders if it’ll ever stop making his heartbeat stutter. 

“Hey, do you wanna grab a coffee? That’s where I was gonna do before you assaulted me.”

“First of all, I didn’t see you—”

“ _Assault_.”

“Sure.”

“Great— oh. To the assault, or to the coffee?”

“The fucking coffee.” 

**_I know it's crazy to believe in silly things._ **

Dejun doesn’t ask where Yangyang has been, or where he goes. Yangyang wouldn’t tell him, anyway. To be pretty honest, Dejun doesn’t ask him much. Yangyang can feel apologetic eyes, the colour of espresso, tracking his every movement around the small apartment. He doesn’t dignify it with a response. If Dejun is reticent to explain himself, Yangyang will gladly entertain the silence. It’s a little juvenile, a little petty, but so are they. As much as they’d rather not admit it. 

Haechan has made himself quite scarce. Not out of guilt, Yangyang is sure, but he reckons Dejun spoke to him. When Yangyang _does_ run into him, they both have a tendency to do a wonderful impression of the colon-square bracket emoji before someone turns around. It’s quite an unnerving experience. Haechan doesn’t exactly seem to be the quiet type, so something is _up_. 

Either way, Yangyang finds staying at the apartment a little painful. 

When he relays an abridged version of this to Hendery (because he doesn’t want Dejun found dead in the morning), all Hendery can do is laugh at his agony. True best friend behaviour. They’ve been meeting intermittently, between Yangyang wandering around Boston and Hendery taking a breather from last minute wedding plans. When he hears about the existence of Renjun, Jeno and Jaemin he is 1) shocked, because Yangyang wasn’t fantastic at making friends _before_ he’d spiralled and 2) ecstatic enough to offer to fly them over. 

Because Hendery is wealthy like that. A fact Yangyang often ignores, unless he wants to send him memes about communism and eating the rich. 

It would be difficult to emulate Hendery’s lavish lifestyle _without_ having vaults upon vaults of cash to burn. Yangyang can’t even remember the history of it all — some ancestors got lucky, another set of ancestors figured out how to keep it going, whatever. All Yangyang really cared about was Hendery’s mother’s fascination with small town life and small town living, which is what had landed them in Monschau. It’s another thing which sets the pair apart. Yangyang may not be struggling (he has enough to buy what he needs and a generous extra), but he’s not thriving either. Not that anybody would need to know. 

“Earth to Yangyang? Nice to know you still ignore me when I’m talking about important things,” Hendery huffs, clapping his hands in front of Yangyang’s face and snickering when Yangyang jerks backwards and nearly unbalances his chair. 

The pair are seated in yet another cafe. A wannabe hipster affair, complete with strings of lightbulbs and fake vines woven around every imaginable surface. It’s the type of place you would visit just to photograph a painstakingly-crafted latte with a classy, modern (yet rustic, whatever that means) background. Source? Hendery is doing just that. 

“Is a shopping trip important?” Yangyang wonders, scrunching his nose at the bitterness of the coffee. He’d let Hendery pick it. He thought caramel would be _sweet_ , this is not sweet.

“Uh, yeah. Very important. Not all of us dress like high school indie kids.”

“True. The rest dress like TikTok e-boys, despite being twenty-three.”

“Oh, ouch. Is this payback for your terrible coffee?”

“Absolutely.”

Hendery rolls his eyes. A self-satisfied, lopsided grin creeps across Yangyang’s lips and Hendery throws a napkin at him to get him to knock it off. Talking to Hendery is so _easy_ , now. No random lapses, no strange stalls as they scramble for words. In a way, it’s cathartic, knowing there’s no need to impress or dazzle someone who knows you too well to fall for it. Way back when — you know, ‘cause Yangyang is an old fucking man at heart — Yangyang would trip over his own feet for Hendery. He’d still do that, but it’s more likely to be the result of untied laces as a prank. Putting Hendery on a pedestal is counterproductive for the pair of them. 

Every part of Yangyang is still sparked, his nerves loose wires in a flood, but he’s beginning to learn how to subdue the shocks every time Hendery offers him a laugh. 

“Oh,” Yangyang realises, “I never asked. How are you feeling about the wedding?”

Hendery shifts in his chair, fingers stilling against the pale wood of the table. It sounds too quiet, now that his nails aren’t tapping relentlessly, even with the soft, indie pop in the background. Yangyang can’t stop himself from arching an eyebrow. 

“Huh, I suppose you wouldn’t have met her,” Hendery mutters, absentminded, “Yiren, I mean.”

“Wang Yiren, right? Unless you made a typo on the invitations. That’s a pretty big fuck-up.” 

“She organised most of the wedding stuff, anyway, so it would be on her.”

Hendery still sounds far away, miles between them as they share the same cafe table. He’s got a distant look in his eyes and Yangyang— he can’t read him. The empty stare could be a daydream or it could be a nightmare and Yangyang wouldn’t be able to figure it out. 

“Well… what’s she like? Did you meet her at Harvard? At a party? Tell me stuff, I missed out on about three years of drama caused by you.”

He’s babbling, a little, but there’s little else to do when Hendery still hasn’t snapped out of it.

“She’s nice,” Hendery _finally_ sighs. Maybe it was a lovesick daze. God knows, Yangyang’s found himself lost in a horrendous amount of those. “She went to university in France. I met her, uh, seven months ago.” 

“What.”

“God, yeah, it doesn’t sound great, does it?” A tiny shrug. “But, she’s nice. Quiet, I guess, but we can’t exactly have two thunderstorms running around Boston, can we? And… I think I’ll be happy with her.”

First of all, there’s nothing wrong with thunderstorms.

Secondly, Yangyang is still trying to come to terms with the whole ‘seven months ago’ part of the equation. Maths isn’t his thing, but he’s almost certain you’re not meant to get married before a year. At least. Is that old-fashioned? Maybe Hendery knows what he’s doing. Waiting seems to be an exclusively Yangyang thing. Oh, but rushing into things isn’t ideal in a relationship, either, so, like, _what_.

“You think?” He echoes, doubt colouring his words, “I’m not— I trust your judgement! Mostly! I just… thought you were meant to be certain about things like this. I dunno.” 

The man in front of him shifts his weight again, fiddling with the hair tie on his wrist before using it to hold back the loose strands around his face. He takes it out mere seconds later, agitated and restless.

“I’m certain about things. I can be certain about things,” Hendery mutters. Yangyang almost thinks he’s talking to himself, but then Hendery has locked narrowed eyes on him and he stiffens. Did he say something wrong? Probably. Ah, shit. 

“I don’t mean it in a bad way. I’m sure Yiren is lovely,” Yangyang sighs, “look, just forget about it. I didn’t say anything.”

“No,” Hendery hums, “I won’t. But! We can move on. The coffee isn’t that bad. I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

Yangyang would love nothing more than to tip the whole fucking mug down a drain, but he keeps it to himself. That appears to be the safer option, given the track record of responses to Yangyang’s interjections. A sly, bratty little part of him — the part that blocks Haechan from his mind, and the part that refuses to let him talk to Dejun — 

**_But, it’s not that easy._ **

In all truthfulness (which seems to be lacking nowadays, not that Yangyang is a saint), Yangyang almost forgets all about the Yiren discussion. He hasn’t met her, despite Hendery’s willingness to talk about her a little more often, as opposed to pretending she doesn’t exist until Yangyang brings her name up. He knows she’s pretty and that she’s smart and that her family are _old money_ , just like Hendery’s. He doesn’t know her likes or dislikes or pet peeves, but he doesn’t really have to. That’s Hendery’s job. He’s doing it reasonably well, Yangyang thinks, from what Hendery reveals in passing remarks and witty little quips.

Or, uh, that’s really how it looked. Honest!

The last time Hendery and Yangyang had gotten (slightly, mildly, a little) intoxicated, it had ended… _badly_ . This isn’t shaping up to be any different. For what it’s worth, Yangyang is morbidly sober because — unlike _someone_ — he’s got a functioning brain. Ah, just kidding. It’s because he’s still vaguely fucked up from the aforementioned Last Time(™). This time around, they’re at Hendery’s place, but in Boston. Not Monschau. This time around, Hendery rests his head on Yangyang’s shoulder and winds an uncooperative arm around his waist. This time around, when Hendery leans in, Yangyang _dives_ backwards.

“Hey!” He squawks, a combination of shocked and — no, he’s just shocked, never mind, “your wedding is literally two days away. One day away. It’s two in the morning. What the _fuck_.”

When Hendery looks at him, plaintive and pouty Yangyang can’t exactly stop the little gasp which betrays how weak he is to Hendery when he tries to act cute. Fucker. 

“‘m sorry,” Hendery mumbles, voice soft, saturated with the alcohol in his glass, “should’ve… known.”

“It’s—” not _fine_ , but Yangyang doesn’t want Hendery to cry, either, what the fuck, what the actual fuck, he’d rather go crash Dejun and Haechan’s date night, “it won’t happen again. We can just forget it, yeah?”

“Don’t wanna.”

God. Yangyang watches as Hendery curls himself into a little ball. He looks like onigiri, if the onigiri was drunk as hell and had mascara tear tracks. Seaweed? Yeah. Onigiri with seaweed. Yangyang is not emotionally equipped to manage any of this. He blocks Hendery’s hand from grabbing the glass again. The result is a not-handhold, Yangyang’s slender and calloused fingers latching around Hendery’s bony wrist. It’s pitiful, the way he wants to tug him closer, tell him _it’s fine, nothing’s wrong, we don’t have to deal with this_. Yangyang can lie to himself all he likes. He can’t lie to Hendery. 

“Did something happen?” The question is a low hum, Yangyang’s bullshit attempt at comfort. “With Yiren?”

He could be completely off, with this line of thought. Maybe Hendery really is just seriously wasted. Yeah. A good, solid sleep and he’ll be ready to tie the rest of his life to a girl he’s known for several months. A happy ending, or whatever. 

“‘Ren…?” Hendery mumbles, eyes squinting at nothing in particular. The years have changed him, drunkenness adding to the weight on his shoulders instead of stitching wings on his back. He’s still slumped, lips pursed as he tries to compute Yangyang’s question. “Yiren?” 

“Yeah, like, uh, your fiancée? Wang Yiren?”

“Mmm…” 

“Is that a yes?”

Instead of offering up a nice, coherent reply, Hendery’s dark (so very dark) eyes well up with tears. They’re shiny — glassy — underneath the living room lights, shining brighter than the amber liquid which led to this whole fiasco. He doesn’t let them fall, but Yangyang guesses it’s a very near thing. Against his judgement (labelling anything as ‘better’ seems terribly presumptuous right now), Yangyang tugs Hendery into a clumsy hug. His long hair sprawls across the expanse of Yangyang’s back, forehead tucked into his shoulder like he can hide from the world like that. Yangyang would let him. 

“I don’t —” Hendery starts. Stops. Breathes. “She’s not — not…”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Yangyang interjects, brushing back Hendery’s hair so that it catches behind his ears. The petting motion seems to relax him, at the very least. 

“Don’t li… liiiike her. Love her. I _don’t_ ,” Hendery whispers, raspy and choked up and _god_. Yangyang freezes. The hand nestled in midnight locks comes to an abrupt standstill, breath lodged in the space between his mouth and his lungs. That would be the fucking windpipe. Trachea? Christ. 

“C’mon,” Yangyang wheezes out, eyes saucer-wide, “you don’t mean that. You’ve had a lot to drink.”

“Yang,” Hendery insists, dropping the second syllable in the same way keys get lost in a drain, “no. No.”

“No?”

“Don’t wanna. Won’t. Can’t.”

“I don’t understand,” says Yangyang, and it’s the only response of the evening that would pass a fact-check. 

There’s a moment of stillness, before Hendery presses a finger to his lips. ‘His’ referring to Yangyang. He then seems to realise the dissonance of this action, and presses a finger to his own lips. After some impressive fumbling around, he manages to hand Yangyang his phone. The wallpaper is Oh Sehun, which isn’t out of the ordinary. To say that Yangyang is completely lost would be a gross understatement. 

“Messages!” Hendery hisses, obviously quite irked by Yangyang’s non-functional cognitive skills. “The messages.”

Right. Okay. Yangyang should check— should _pretend_ to check the texts between Hendery and Yiren, because this is definitely a non-consensual invasion of privacy. Fucking hell. None of this falls under the umbrella of ‘good ideas’, and Yangyang is more than aware of that. It doesn’t matter if Yiren isn’t actually _pregnant_ , or if the arranged marriage could technically be called off, but _Hendery, please don’t, my parents would be so furious, you understand, don’t you, I really do love you_ —

Turns out, your brain sometimes still registers words even when you try really, very, incredibly hard to ignore them. Funny how that never worked when he was studying for his school exams. Oh, this is so fucked up. There’s no real way to like, clarify it, since Hendery is… here, but his consciousness clearly isn’t. A quick statistic to show how prepared Yangyang was for literally any of this: 0%.

Briefly, he imagines a universe in which he allowed Hendery to fly their — no, not _their_. Yangyang’s — friends out and they’d all be here to, god, crash the fucking wedding or something insane like that. 

He can’t feel the muscles in his face. Or anywhere, actually. He’s completely frozen, imitating a goldfish as he stares at the incriminating text messages. Having successfully spilled his guts, Hendery has fallen asleep. On the sofa. Across Yangyang’s legs. Well, he’ll have to stay there until Yangyang figures out how to breathe again. It’s so wonderfully melodramatic and completely out of left field, he could laugh. What now? Will Hendery’s mother pop up from behind the sofa and pay Yangyang millions to make sure he never goes near her son again?

(He does check behind him, just in case).

Yangyang exhales. A soft, sad thing that disappears in the humid apartment air. Perhaps, in another life, he’d have this all figured out. Perhaps it would not have gotten this bad in the first place. 

Wishful thinking.

**_I remember it now, it takes me back to when it all first started._ **

He should know better, by now. 

One summer — probably the one before they were expected to go to university or wherever — Hendery had snuck out of his house and thrown rocks at Yangyang’s window. Suitably disgruntled, Yangyang had caught one and tossed it right back at Hendery. He missed, but Hendery never let him live it down.

“Yangyang!” He gasped, hand clutched to his chest like a distraught Victorian maiden. Yangyang should’ve thrown a heavier rock.

“It’s six in the morning, you fuckin’ menace,” Yangyang groaned, clambering out of his window, anyway. He told himself it was because he wanted to be able to throttle Hendery properly. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Is it not enough to want to watch the sun with my best friend in the whole wide world?”

Yangyang squinted at Hendery. Hendery squinted back. Yangyang squinted more. Hendery flicked his forehead and pushed him. Yangyang punched him in the gut. Such was their dynamic. 

“Ow.”

“Ow, yourself,” Yangyang muttered, accepting Hendery’s clumsy embrace regardless of his previous words, “what’s up?”

“The sun, soon enough,” Hendery muttered back, smushing Yangyang’s cheeks, “hey, you look like a hamster.”

“I can't stand you. Die.”

Yangyang can remember the way Hendery stared at him, hopeful and so, so reckless. He can remember the way he’d stared back, so openly confused. The memory ends there, a result of sleep deprivation and time wearing him down. He can’t really remember the rest of the conversation, but he knows Hendery had stuck to him like a leech afterwards. Before he had left for America, that is.

Here’s the thing: Yangyang nearly didn’t show up at the wedding. In true Yangyang fashion, he lets this fact fester and poison the entire affair. Before he had left Hendery’s place, the man had grabbed his wrist and demanded to know if he would still attend. The urgency in his eyes let Yangyang know that the alcohol didn’t impact his memory as much as they’d both been hoping for. 

Besides the lingering guilt caused by how he had been completely prepared to skip his best friend’s wedding, he’s running out of time. Time to do what? Okay, well, Yangyang sort of… almost… kind of justified it in his head. He’s not Hendery’s best man — someone called Mark is, and he’s actually really cool, from what Yangyang’s heard — so if he was to, uh, hypothetically object to the marriage, the scandal might not be as bad…? It didn’t sound this bad when he first thought of it. He swears. 

Would Hendery mind? No. Yangyang is aware of that much. Why would he have let Yangyang go without demanding he stay silent, if he did? Hendery was never one for sugarcoating. Thank fuck for that, at least. 

There’s a sizable list of people who _would_ mind, though. Hendery’s sister isn’t on it, but the rest of his family is. Even his little cousin, who sneered at Yangyang when he arrived like she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t wearing brand-name designer suits like the rest. Feel free to insert a distressed scream. It would only add to the atmosphere.

Yangyang sinks down in his chair, puffing his cheeks out as he goes. Maybe, almost, possibly, if he was anyone else, he wouldn’t have a problem with objecting to a loveless, very much _arranged_ (like, god, what drama is he in?) marriage. However, this Yangyang — the Yangyang who isn’t fearless or famous or full of himself in any way — isn’t the type of person to disrupt such an event. He can feel the Hendery’s heavy stare on him, but he doesn’t dare look up. 

Hendery’s relying on him. He shouldn’t. 

Yangyang is bouncing his leg, now, a meagre outlet for so much nervous energy. He wishes— hopes? No, wishes, there’s no point hoping now. He wishes he was someone else. Someone with a bit of fucking sense, who could’ve prevented all this from happening in the first place. It’s too warm, the church closing in around him as his breaths become erratic and unsteady. It’s melodramatic. It’s not Yangyang being forced into a marriage for money and his family’s dignity’s sake. He just has to watch Hendery endure it. Just—

Yangyang’s bravery has only ever lasted as long as everyone’s faith in him. At least, he thought it did. Now, watching Yiren walk up the aisle, he thinks that’s far too generous.

_I think too much_ , he muses, head clearing into a startling calm, _I really do._

Yangyang can't hear anything beyond the ringing in his ears. When Hendery makes eye contact with him, disappointed and resigned all in one, he reckons it’s for the best.

**_I've only got myself to blame for it, and I accept that now._ **

The reception is _grand_ grand. Yangyang supposes this is the norm for distressingly wealthy families. He’s at the fringes of the whole affair, hands stuck in his pockets as he hovers near the wall. Nobody passes him any remarks, too rich and powerful to care about the stranger who looks like a thirteen year old playing dress up with his dad’s clothes. 

“Hey, you’re Yangyang, right?” Someone asks, directly into his ear. Yangyang jumps a little too high for comfort. What the fuck.

“Yes? Maybe? What?”

The person laughs and actually walks into Yangyang’s line of sight. Oh, it’s Mark. That’s reassuring, considering Yangyang had wondered if he was hallucinating. He’s not— he doesn’t know the guy well, even though he probably should. All their communication has only ever been via Hendery, but Yangyang has heard enough to know that Mark is earnest and puppy-like in his enthusiastic displays of friendship. To be less poetic: Mark is hella.

“Chill, I’m not here to drag you out!” Mark reassures him. Yangyang wasn’t aware that this was a potential threat in the first place, but… sticks and stones! “What did you think of my speech?”

Mark’ speech hadn’t been a _speech_ , so to say. It had been a slideshow of Hendery’s most embarrassing moments with (a censored version of) Nicki Minaj’s _Coco Chanel_ playing in the background.

“Best one I’ve ever witnessed,” Yangyang responds, eyes wide in his sincerity, “the transition animations were… uh… really something else.”

“Listen, I did warn Hendery that if he did somethin’ stupid, I’d be on my worst behaviour for his wedding,” Mark says, so serious that Yangyang almost believed him. And then Mark laughed. So, there was that. “No, no, no. I’m kidding. I wouldn’t ruin his wedding, I’m not _evil_. I just needed to lighten the whole thing up, you know?”

Yangyang is, decidedly, not reminiscing about his earlier plan. That was Yangyang from the past! Didn’t matter anymore! Haha…

“So! Yangyang! Yang squared! Two-Yang!” Mark hollers, draping an arm across Yangyang’s shoulders and sending his own champagne splattering over the marble flooring, “I’ve heard a lot about you!”

“Oh, well, I hope Hendery hasn’t completely dragged me to filth,” Yangyang attempts to joke. Hendery wouldn’t. Maybe. Okay, actually…?

“All good things!” Mark assures him, “really good things! Fantastic things.”

Where is this going? Does Yangyang like where it’s going? First of all, a Yangyang has no idea, so never mind. He’s spiralling again.

“Are you sure?” Yangyang wonders, “we _did_ fall out of contact, for a while.” 

And because Mark is so disarmingly laidback and cheery, it takes Yangyang a second to register his next words.

“Right, _you_ fell out of contact. Hendery, like, never stopped talking about you. Ever. It was kinda…” here, Mark pauses, head tilted at the spilled champagne on the floor. It’s such a long pause that Yangyang nearly gives up on hearing the end of the sentence. “Kinda sad, dude, ‘cos Hendery’s not the mopey type. Usually.” 

Yangyang thinks back to when Hendery would call him late at night, head filled with a nostalgia that he was barely old enough to feel. Hendery was a capital R Romantic, in love with love and all the despair that seemed to come hand-in-hand with it. Has college mellowed the ancient sort of weight that rested on his shoulders? Or has he hidden it, well enough so only Yangyang could ever discern the hurricane behind chocolate eyes?

“Usually,” Yangyang echoes.

“Take it with a pinch of salt, I guess,” Mark shrugs, “oh, I _love_ this song! See you, Yangyang!”

With that, Mark melts back into the crowd, effortlessly social in ways Yangyang could only dream of. Was this usual, he questioned, did Mark normally diagnose years of doubt like he was talking about the weather? Possibly. Yangyang doesn’t even know what constitutes a _pinch of salt_. Like, a tiny grain? A handful? He’s never been good at cooking.

Yangyang shuffles backwards, disappearing out onto the balcony. Nobody passes any remarks. He doesn’t know why that’s so surprising. Maybe because, throughout all his time in America, all he has faced are several fucking curveballs after each other.

The evening breeze is comforting against his face, tufts of brown hair flopping into his line of sight as he leans against the railing. Beneath him is an endless stretch of green, the artificial gardens able to flourish in the caustic winter. It makes sense, preserving the beauty with plastic and silk instead of watching it wither away with the seasons. It makes sense, but Yangyang thinks he prefers the ever-changing palette of Monschau. If things never changed, you would never know what you missed. What you wanted. What you hated. What you loved. 

“I was wondering why I couldn’t see you in the crowd,” Hendery comments, “should’ve known you’d be out here. Aren’t you cold?”

“Not really,” is Yangyang’s brittle reply. His gaze is fixed on the painstakingly fake lawn below, eyes tracking the the maze created from wire and stitches, “it’s nice. For winter.”

“For winter,” Hendery hums. 

Yangyang chances him a look. He is every inch the perfect groom, more manicured than the gardens spanning out before them. It makes Yangyang feel a little melancholy, a little bitter. 

“You know,” Hendery continues. Yangyang could _scream_ , because if this has taught him anything it has taught him that there is so much he doesn’t know, “I… I thought you’d do something. I don’t know.”

That… that’s something Yangyang can comprehend.

“So did I,” Yangyang laughs. Maybe the verb _laugh_ is too generous. “I did— I planned it. In my head.”

“And you didn’t.”

There’s an accusation lying underneath those words. Yangyang clenches his jaw. There are some things which he has never understood— will never understand. And Yangyang has known this for quite a while. He won’t always get all the answers, won’t always get his own way. But, Hendery has carved a space for himself in a Yangyang’s life, in Yangyang’s heart. Yangyang might as well demand a little proof that Hendery deserves the pedestal he has been put on. 

Something must change in his expression, because Hendery opens his mouth as if there is something he can say to remedy it.

“Hendery,” Yangyang begins. It is not a shout, it is not a sigh. “Hendery. When will you— no. Why do you do this? Why do you need to be the damsel in distress? Why do you need to be the one who needs saving, time and time again? Hendery. _Hendery_. You are my best friend, you know that, and I love you. Have loved you.”

Yangyang has never been good with emotions. With talking. He’s perpetually saying too much or saying nothing at all and he— he just wants Hendery to understand. To understand that this _isn’t fair_ . That Yangyang can’t be expected to run after him like Hendery is the centre of his universe, like he’s all of Yangyang’s beliefs encapsulated in one person. Because Yangyang loves Hendery, but Hendery doesn’t love him back enough to _try_. 

“Yangyang—”

“Please don’t interrupt me,” Yangyang pleads, heaving in a knife-sharp breath, “I’m not saying that you have it easy, or that this isn’t hard for you. I know it is. But— but— Hendery, I can't live my life waiting for yours to collide with it.”

Being Yangyang was a wonderfully horrific paradox of magic and science. A human being. Something he’d been aware of, but was willing to ignore in favour of simply being there for Hendery. It didn’t matter how much stardust Yangyang contained or the amount of bones able to be broken, because Hendery would always shine brighter. He wasn’t jealous of Hendery. He wasn’t jealous back when Hendery had confessed the sordid ins-and-outs of his family’s affairs. He isn’t jealous now, when Hendery is trapped in an arranged marriage.

“No,” Hendery mumbled, head ducked like a scolded child, “I get it. I do.”

_Do you?_ Yangyang asked, except it came out as, “thank you.”

_No, but I will. I just need time. Time I don’t really deserve, but isn’t that how it’s always been?_ Hendery replies, except it came out as, “it’s fine. More than fine.”

It’s silent. The refined chaos of the party is muted by the glass doors, stretching the length of the balcony they stand on. Yangyang picks idly at his sleeve, biting his lower lip. Hendery’s mouth is open, the words he wants to say escaping him. He must reign them in, eventually, because he turns back to Yangyang with a sort-of curious little look.

“Why didn’t you ask me to the dance?” Hendery blurts out of nowhere, face flushed with rare embarrassment. Yangyang can feel himself doing his famed goldfish impression, but you can’t really blame him.

“What.”

“God, right, I mean the end of year dance back at school. The one a while after my birthday.”

Yangyang knows what he means now, but that doesn’t necessarily equate to Yangyang’s _understanding_ of the question. He hadn’t asked Hendery to the dance because what was the point in going with someone you blatantly had no chance with? He says as much to Hendery, who begins to do his own goldfish impression. What a lovely little aquarium they make. 

“Why would you not have had a chance with me?” Hendery wonders. It’s not spoken in desperation, the breathlessness that comes from clutching at loose strings in hopes that one of them is attached to a buoy. No, it’s genuine intrigue. Hendery doesn’t understand, which is hilarious because this all happened years and, you know, they’re at Hendery’s wedding now. 

“Because…” Yangyang says, slow and deliberate, “you didn’t like me in that way.”

“The _fuck_?”

“You said, you said! And I quote! You said you regretted everything!”

It’s a little too obvious where this is all heading and Yangyang thinks America could do with being less dramatic. On one hand, he would hope that the pair of them would know better than to let simple miscommunication fuck everything up. In a much realer sense, Yangyang knows that between them, they have one braincell and both of them suffer from Dumb Bitch Disease. So, the conclusion he jumps to isn’t all that unrealistic. Hendery appears to agree.

“Yangyang,” he says, pained as he pinches the bridge of his nose, “I meant the alcohol poisoning. I regretted _drinking_. Not— yeah.” 

Yangyang swallows. Glances at the glass doors. Glances at the gardens. Glances at the night sky like a fucking angel will come down and smack some sense into them with a godly harp. 

“Oh,” he says.

“Oh,” Hendery replies.

Yangyang will fly home soon enough. As it turns out, it took leaving Monschau for him to realise that the small, sleepy tourist town is all he’s ever wanted. Yangyang will dream of bleached banquet halls and eternal gardens and he will clutch the constant temporarity of Monschau like a lifeline. He will think of Hendery and Hendery will think of him. 

And so it goes.

**_It's time to let it go, go out and start again._ **

“Excuse me, take that back!”

“Hell no,” Jeno shakes his head, newly-dyed black hair all over the place, “Star Wars is past its time. Let it _go_.”

“Renjun!” Jaemin screeches, “this is a hate crime! Tell him Star Wars is a timeless classic!” 

Renjun looks up from the heavy book on their lap, brows furrowed in disbelief. They promptly stay silent, before realising that they’d lost their sentence. With a sigh of defeat, they shut the book with a loud thud.

“I could,” they hum through the lollipop jammed between their teeth, “but I’d be lying.”

“ _Renjun_ !” Jaemin gasps, hand clutched to his chest like Renjun and Jeno had just jammed two lightsabers through his heart, “I am affronted! Appalled! How _dare_ —”

Yangyang chooses that moment to interrupt, bursting through the door with the bizarre vibrancy only born from extreme joy or extreme stress. Considering it was Yangyang, nobody could really be sure which it was. It wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar scene, though, so the conversation cautiously resumed. Yangyang barrelled up the stairs, returning with his battered laptop in tow.

“So! Good day?” Jaemin queries.

“Huh?” Yangyang’s head jerks up, eyes wide. The trio could literally see the gears in his brain turning. Slowly! But turning nonetheless. “Oh! Hey, people who don’t live here.” 

Renjun snorts at that, having located their previous position in their novel. Jeno has the grace to look mildly embarrassed at the way they’d all let themselves in and made themselves at home. Jaemin has no such qualms, choosing to launch an empty sweet packet at Yangyang’s head. It fluttered to the ground halfway through its trajectory. Yangyang commended the effort.

“Hey,” Jeno grins, “it was supposed to be a surprise visit, but it’s us.”

Yangyang blew out his cheeks in fond exasperation. It sounded reasonable enough. He _had_ let them keep the spare key, partially banking on their propensity for losing things and partially wanting to, you know, keep them in his life. The last part wanders a little too close to an almost healed scar, and Yangyang opens up his laptop in hopes that the questionable whirring of the (broken. Incredibly broken) fan-slash-battery would distract them all.

It did.

“God, get a new laptop,” Renjun groans, covering their ears in distress. 

“Until I get a blessing from heaven itself, which can simultaneously pay for the upkeep of my house _and_ fix my numerous abandonment issues, the laptop stays.”

“Go to therapy.” Renjun snipes, pulling a face. 

Yangyang doesn’t blame them. The year after his first meeting with the trio (and, subsequently, the disastrous trip to America) has witnessed quite a few changes. For one, Yangyang has managed to fix his house up enough to market it as a totally reasonable B&B. He’d gotten rid of the art studio and turned it into a bedroom. The studio was a good idea _at the time_ , he’ll give Dejun that, but… in hindsight? Dejun wasn’t the genius Yangyang once thought he was. 

What else had changed? Oh. The heating worked. Also, Yangyang had gotten a raise at the record store. Ah! He was also fucking around with art on the side. Funny how things were fun once you got over the crippling fear of never being adequate enough. 

“I’ve been to therapy!” Yangyang chirps back at them, “it was a casual reference to the fact that money has the potential to buy happiness.” 

Renjun’s exasperation is palpable and is promptly interrupted by the (functional! It’s working now!) doorbell. Yangyang nearly drops his laptop, brows furrowed in transparent bewilderment. He’s not expecting anyone, right? Is he? He might be. When’s the last time he slept? Is there an email he missed? Should he have ordered a lighter coffee earlier? 

“Hey. Two-Yang. Are you… gonna get the door?” Jaemin prods. Ah. The door.

The door!

Yangyang trips over his feet in his rush, barely setting his laptop down properly before he’s hurrying over. His brain cycles through several worst-case scenarios, most of them ending in arrest or death because that’s who Yangyang is as a person. Once the door is open, however, he begins to question the severity of jail in comparison. Dark hair and dark eyes and dark eyeliner and— Yangyang is staring. 

“Uh, I got recommended this B&B and was wondering if you had a vacant room?” Hendery’s question is stilted, chary tone siphoning away his aura of confidence. He looks unsure, a stranger in his own skin. Yangyang decided quite a while ago that he preferred Hendery to be happy. Whatever that meant.

“For how many?” Yangyang breathes out. Hendery hasn’t broken eye contact, and he still doesn’t when he smirks — what’s with that, anyway, he’s not some fancy male lead — and raises one hand. One finger.

“Just one.”

And there are so many questions Yangyang wants to ask, like _why when how what where_ , but Hendery’s been out of reach and out of touch for far too long for him to really care about the specifics. He can grill him later. Right now, Yangyang is content to pull his best friend into a hug, as all-encompassing and exhilarating as they were. Dimly, he remembers Renjun, Jeno and Jaemin in the living area. Oh, they’ll be fine.

“Let me show you to the room,” Yangyang exclaims, darting off before Hendery has a moment to process anything, “do you know how long you’ll be staying? What’s your budget like? I shouldn’t change my prices, but you know me, right? Do you need one of those tourist guides? What about allergies— oh, wait, I know you, nevermind, and—”

“Yangyang,” Hendery says.

They’re in the spare bedroom now, lace curtains fluttering gently as the cool breeze buffets them. Beams of early evening sunlight bathe them in an exuberant gold, the furniture splitting them into thin branches of radiance against dark wood and pale blue fabric. Hendery stands by the door, hands jammed into the pockets of his hoodie. He looks awfully small, crouched to lean against the doorway. He’s no exception to the path of the sun, and those same rays of light catch on sharp cheekbones. 

“Yeah?” Yangyang gets out through the lump in his throat and the jackrabbit pulse of his heartbeat. 

“I— wasn't going to do it like this,” Hendery admits, “I wanted to fly you out. Make it all dramatic and superfluous. But, uh, you would’ve hated it.”

He’s not wrong. Yangyang doesn’t say this out loud — Hendery already knows, and this seems like something he needs to _listen_ to.

“Things are completely over with Yiren. I mean, you knew that there wasn’t much to end, anyway. Everything’s settled, I think. I was going to email you about it, and then I realised that I… drag you into too many of my struggles. It wouldn’t have been fair to get you involved when you didn’t need to be.”

That’s… not something Yangyang expected of Hendery. He wonders if that has been the impact of their conversation on the balcony. Learning when to keep and when to give away. Learning when to hold on and when to loosen your grip. Learning when to inhale and exhale. Small lessons. He’s glad, that Hendery took the time to consider what Yangyang might want in such a case.

“Yangyang, I think I’ve been very unfair to you.”

“Huh?”

Hendery meets his lost expression with a guilty smile, the type of smile Yangyang saw him wear when they’d both been caught down by the riverbank when they should’ve been at school, and Hendery had a loose cigarette dangling from his lips and Yangyang wanted nothing more than to prise open Hendery’s rib cage and crawl inside like that would make him feel less overwhelmed. 

“Can I be selfish, just one last time?”

“What are you talking about?” Yangyang asks, suddenly very aware of each nerve in his body sparking up a storm like a downed electricity pylon.

“Yangyang, I really do love you. I’ve had time to think about it — not that I needed to, much. I’ve had time to— to wonder— I’ve been questioning what loving someone means. And, I think I’m beginning to get it. I’m sorry that this is years late and that it’s probably inconvenient and—”

It’s Yangyang’s turn to murmur a soft ‘Hendery’, to pull his head up above the waves.

“Hendery,” Yangyang repeats, “you're an idiot if you think I had the sense to get over you. I’m not saying you weren’t selfish, sometimes, but it wasn’t all your fault. We’re both idiots.”

There is more Yangyang could say, about how love is selfish in itself, about how relearning love takes time, about how love could kill them if they let it. At this moment in time, however, he is content to know that he doesn’t need to say all that right now. They have time. It can wait for later. For now, Yangyang tugs Hendery forward by the pocket of his hoodie, gazing at him expectantly.

“…Are you going to make me do all the tough work, even now?” He asks, raspy and gentle all in one.

Hendery rewards the quip with a scrunched nose and a sheepish laugh. Instead of offering a reply, he leans down. Slender fingers brush through the tangled locks of Yangyang’s hair, chocolate eyes committing every detail of Yangyang to memory like he’ll disappear. Yangyang opens his mouth to tease the sentimentality of it all when Hendery tips forward and presses their lips together. 

There are no sparks or fireworks, only the sound of voices below and bicycle bells outside and traffic further afield. Hendery’s hands are a grounding weight on Yangyang’s waist, pulling him closer and closer and Yangyang has never been more overwhelmed in his life, one simple kiss enough to send his mind spiralling into overdrive. Yangyang has always made a point of keeping his lips moisturised — self-care and whatnot — but Hendery’s are chapped with travel and Yangyang finds he doesn’t mind at all. 

**_Dear Hendery,_ **

**_I’m glad you’re back. I’m glad you’re here with me. It won’t be simple and there are things which might still haunt us. Does it matter, though? I have myself. I have my friends. I have you. I know I will always have these things. So will you. Love is about being selfish with each other. I don’t expect you to cater to my every whim and I hope you feel the same. I don’t want you to think you are obligated to solve all my issues. All I ask is that you care and that you listen. I promise to follow that, too._ **

**_Our life is made up of time; our days are measured in hours, our pay measured by those hours, our knowledge is measured by years. We grab a few quick minutes in our busy day to have a coffee break. We rush back to our desks, we watch the clock, we live by appointments. And yet your time eventually runs out and you wonder in your heart of hearts if those seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years and decades were being spent the best way they possibly could. In other words, if you could change anything, would you?_ **

**_I love you._ **

**_It’s a weight off my shoulders, saying it without guilt. Without fear or shame. Hendery, I think I’m more in love with you than I will ever be with anyone else. Feel honoured._ **

**_I probably won’t ever send this to you. You’re too nearby, I could just… say it to you. You could probably read it over my shoulder, dick. Just don’t make fun of me, alright?_ **

**_Love, Yangyang._ **

People have a very funny way of neatly arranging things into pairs. There’s an odd obsession with other halves and coincidental little duos. Sunrise goes with sunset, winter goes with summer, spring goes with autumn and Hendery goes with Yangyang. It’s just one of those inexplicable things.


End file.
